Kendall owens



If I was a moth,

I’d have wings of straw

and a little, black, breakable body.

Thing is:

Straw burns.

I’d have to be wary of flames.

Like moth to flame

Like mountain to dust

You are dust

and to dust you shall return.

Upon my return, I was greeted by the glare

of sunlight

reflected off tin roofs.

And I couldn’t help but think:

A stack of needles

hiding a piece of straw.


I don’t want what I want.

What I want is a need

To please, to be,

To discover the lines that edge between apathy and

The simplest sensation of desire.

For love without agency

Is the deepest sentiment of remorse

That can be felt by the human soul,

Limited only by

Imagination creasing at the seams

Like origami worn thin.

These dreams deferred

Wisp away like feathers caught in the wind,

Leaving behind the skeleton of Fate

Where she meets in unholy union

With Coincidence.

Coincidently, the perpetrator

Of the divine

Perpetually mourning in his golden tomb

Has shed his fading light

Upon the macabre scene

Of empathy stretched

Until it cracks like dough

Or heartstrings,

And this dying warmth alights a spark

That smells like gasoline.